


All I Want for Christmas Is...

by rilakumabear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-20
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-13 23:25:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3400172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rilakumabear/pseuds/rilakumabear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas fic request #4 I AM REALLY SORRY ABOUT HOW LATE THIS IS PLEASE FORGIVE ME</p><p>John asks Sherlock what he wants for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All I Want for Christmas Is...

“I did the shopping today,” Sherlock announces in a drawl before John even finishes reaching the top of the stairs. “There’s beer as well.”

“Oh,” John shrugs off his coat, slightly puzzled. He stomps off the snow on his boots before entering the flat. “And milk, I suppose?”

“Mm,” Sherlock replies. He’s laid out on the sofa, hands pressed together under his chin as if in prayer. It’s his “mind palace” pose, but the fact that’s he’s talking suggests there’s nothing of huge importance in his thoughts.

“Thanks,” John checks the fridge, even more surprised when he doesn’t find any dismembered body parts lying inside. It was rare, but Sherlock was a thoughtful flatmate, even if his idea of “thoughtful” didn’t quite overlap with John’s.

“No case today?” John calls over his shoulder, fixing a couple of brews.

“Lestrade called but I solved it without getting up,” Sherlock answers, sounding bored. “The poolboy did it.”

“Didn’t know anyone in Britain actually hires poolboys,” John mutters, stirring in Sherlock’s sugar. “It was quiet at the clinic as well.”

“I know,” Sherlock reaches out a hand for his tea, eyes still closed. John rolls his eyes, but pushes it into his palm, not bothering to ask how the other man knew- about the clinic or the tea. “I need a new case soon,” Sherlock mutters. “Without stimulation, my brain will rot!” With a dramatic sigh, he sits up to sip his drink.

“I heard about a shooting in Brixton,” John suggests. Sherlock scowls.

“Gangs fighting over useless territory,” he replies. “Homeless network,” he adds, at John’s expression.

“Maybe you could branch out of London,” John puts forward. It’s a half-hearted suggestion- they both know Sherlock was comfortable- and preferred- it in London.

“Boring,” the consulting detective scoffs.

“Well, perhaps you could help me find a present,” John suggests. “We’re doing a Secret Santa at the clinic and I have no idea what to buy for Lindsay. The receptionist,” he adds, at Sherlock’s furrowed brow. “I thought maybe those bath gift sets they do at Boots…”

“Lindsay,” Sherlock repeats. “Brown hair, green eyes, five-foot seven?”

“That’s the one,” John confirms impressed. Sherlock’s only met her twice and both times he’d breezed past her to barge into John’s office.

“She has eczema, so leave out any skincare gifts,” Sherlock tells him. John sighs. Of course Sherlock would have deduced her in those two fleeting moments.

“Alright…clothing? A scarf or a pair of socks?”

“If you’re willing to to go out of your way to buy hypoallergenic materials,” Sherlock shrugs. John frowns. Maybe not.

“What do you suggest, then?”

“She’s a romantic. Single, bashful but not shy. Just waiting for her ‘Mr Right’ to come in and sweep her off her feet,” Sherlock intones, rolling his eyes as he says ‘Mr Right.’ “Get her a set of Jane Austen novels. Preferably vintage copies to add to the romance.”

“Great,” John replies, relieved. He makes a mental note to drop by the bookstore after work the next day.

“And who’s your Secret Santa?”

“I don’t know. That’s the whole point, Sherlock,” John says drily.

“Want me to work it out?”

“No,” John says firmly. “Thanks, but it’ll be a nice surprise.” He pauses. “Say, I don’t suppose you want anything in particular for Christmas? You know I can’t deduce things like you. So if there’s anything you want, just let me know, okay? Within reason,” he adds hastily.

Sherlock says nothing, staring up at the ceiling and John wonders if the other man has entered his mind palace.

“There’s nothing I want that you could give me, John,” he says eventually, voice soft. There’s something new that’s crept into his tone, but John doesn’t push it.

“Alright,” he agrees finally. Sherlock says nothing, closing his eyes and sinking deeper into the sofa. With a sigh, John resigns to being shut out of that brilliant mind, and collects Sherlock’s half-empty mug to wash in the kitchen.

*

Sherlock waits until John’s finished washing the mugs, leaving them to dry beside the sink. He waits until John’s footsteps have retreated up into his room before opening his eyes again.

 _There’s nothing I want that you could give me_.

Well, he wasn’t wrong was he? John couldn’t give him- well, himself. The brave solider would never be Sherlock’s. John’s eyes would keep admiring the pretty ladies in their dresses and heels, and eventually they would stop roaming and stay on one lady and Sherlock would have to grudgingly move over and let her move into Baker Street as well. Or what if she wanted John to leave Baker Street? Sherlock didn’t like to think John would leave him alone but who knew about his future lady love? He scowls, disliking this unknown woman already.

Suddenly he feels restless, 221B feeling too small. Sherlock rises to his feet, pulling on his coat and heading outside. At a loss, he finds himself directing a taxi to Mycroft’s house; a tall, imposing building specifically chosen to intimidate guests. He lets himself in with his spare key, not bothering to call for his older brother- Mycroft always knew when Sherlock decided to show up.

“John still oblivious then, I assume?” Mycroft drawls as Sherlock enters his office. He stands with his back to his younger brother, putting away some filing. When he turns, Sherlock’s sat in an armchair facing the open fire, refusing to confirm Mycroft’s thoughts.

“I told you Sherlock,” Mycroft sighs.

“I know what you said,” Sherlock snaps. “But I can’t control my emotions as well as you, you _robot_.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mycroft replies drily. He seats himself opposite his brother.

“It’s only a matter of time,” Sherlock mutters. “Only a matter a time before he finds _her_.”

Mycroft says nothing. He knows that the female pronouns were Sherlock’s childish way of referring to John’s future wife, a figure Sherlock seemed insistent would show up any day now. It was almost as if he was counting down the days, without even knowing the amount of days.

“She’ll probably make John leave Baker Street,” Sherlock spits. “Probably make him wear suits an eat spinach- he _hates_ spinach- and put sugar in his tea when he doesn’t take it.”

 _What makes you so sure it’ll be a “she”?_ Mycroft wonders for the umpteenth time if he should tell his younger brother about his flatmate’s bisexuality. But he can’t help but pity his sibling, seething and glaring at the fire. So, yet again, he says nothing and allows Sherlock to open his heart to his brother in the only way he knew how.

*

“Merry Christmas!” Lestrade bellows over the noise. His flat is stuffed full of people- from the force, neighbours, friends of friends. His wife is glaringly absent, which explains the huge amount of people, and John would feel sorry for Lestrade if the other man didn’t actually look happy, swaying with a glass of champagne in hand.

John’s feeling rather light headed himself, pleasantly buzzed from the drinks. He glances around for Sherlock, but he’s nowhere to be seen. John isn’t surprised- Sherlock hated social events enough, without being dragged to a rowdy Christmas party John had insisted on. Lestrade was their friend after all.

Bladder bursting, John heads for the bathroom but is dismayed to find it occupied. He hesitates a little before heading upstairs- Lestrade probably wouldn’t mind, right? Stumbling a little over the stairs, John laughs to himself a little- perhaps he’s a bit more drunk than he thought.

The bathroom is a quiet haven from the noise downstairs, and John savours the environment, if only for a moment. But he really should be looking for Sherlock soon- if he hadn’t left already. Thoughts occupied, he barely notices another man outside the door before he’s toppling into him and onto the floor.

“Shit! Shit, I’m sorry,” John stumbles to his feet, holding out a hand for the other man.

“It’s fine,” the stranger says, with a laugh. “Too much to drink?”

“Something like that,” John admits. He glances at the other man. He was tall- maybe Sherlock’s height- with wavy dark brown hair greying at the temples and chocolate eyes. Suddenly, John realises he’s still holding the stranger’s hand and let’s go, as if electrified.

“S-Sorry.”

The stranger smiles. “Don’t be. I’m Alex.”

“Alex,” John repeats, slightly dazed. “I’m John. John Watson. How do you know Greg?” he asks. “Haven’t seen you around before.”

“Same gym,” Alex explains. “Though to be honest I’m surprised he invited me, we’ve only spoken a few times. How about you?”

“Uh, mutual friends,” John says, acutely aware of just how close Alex is standing. The other man doesn’t seem to notice though. A strand of hair falls into his eyes and he brushes it away with a smooth motion, a smile still on his face. “Should we get back?” John rasps, voice suddenly dry.

“I admit I prefer it here, to be honest,” Alex smiles, intention blatant.

Maybe it’s the alcohol or maybe it’s the way Alex is staring into his eyes so intensely. But either way, John finds the clear message a huge relief and before he knows it, he’s stepped right into Alex’s personal space, breathing in the same air. Alex’s smile widens, hands cupping John’s face, getting closer, closer-

And then they’re kissing, Alex’s hands boldly cupping his face, hips grinding against John’s, pushing him back against the wall.

“Fuck,” John gasps, dazed but he’s sober enough to realise exactly what was happening. It’s been years since he’s kissed another man- maybe since his days in the army- and he marvels at how different it is. Alex’s stubble scratches against his chin and John cards his fingers through the other man’s thick hair, pulling him closer, allowing the other man to take the lead.

“ _Yes_ ,” Alex breathes, grinning against his lips. “God, you are gorgeous.”

“Mmpf,” is all John’s able to mumble.

Alex grinds his hips against Johns, a slow, deliberate circle of his pelvis that makes John weak at the knees. “Want to?” he breathes, pushing John towards the bed. “I don’t think there’s lube but we can improvise.”

“Wh—what?” John blurts, mind finally catching up. He hesitates as Alex smoothly pulls off his shirt- oh, _God_ , his chest- straddling him over the mattress. “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” Alex murmurs, kissing a trail down his neck. John gasps, cock hardening under the stimulation, but he still doesn’t feel entirely comfortable.

“We’re on Greg’s _bed_ ,” he mutters in disbelief, more to himself than Alex.

“Oh yeah,” Alex croons. “Think about how many times he’s fucked his wife here, and we’re about to desecrate it.” He seems turned on by the idea, but the thought just makes John feel guilty and slightly nauseous.

Still, the feel of Alex groping his ass is incredibly distracting, plus he’s not quite sober yet. Instead, he pulls Alex back in for another kiss, moaning.

“Jesus Christ! On my fucking _bed_!” Lestrade’s voice booms, though he sounds more astonished than angry. John and Alex spring apart like guilty teenagers, just in time to see a whirl of a long black coat disappear from sight.

“Sherlock,” John whispers, horrified. He barely listens as Alex is hurriedly pulling on his shirt and muttering apologies. Sherlock had seen them. No, Sherlock had seen _him,_ with a _man_ and-

“I-I have to go,” John blurts. He pushes past Lestrade, dashing down the stairs and out of the house. He’s lucky that there aren’t too many taxis around Lestrades’ area, and is able to spot the other man striding furiously down the pavement.

“Sherlock! Wait!” John yells. He’s not even wearing his coat for God’s sake, but that’s not important right now. “Please. I can explain.”

“Explain?” Sherlock snaps, refusing to look at him as John catches up. “Explain what?”

“He was- Alex is just-”

“Alex,” Sherlock repeats the name with a cruel sneer. “So tell me, what would’ve happened if Lestrade and I hadn’t interrupted, hm? Would you have fucked him? Or let him fuck you?”

The crass words are a shock to the system. “That’s none of your business,” John snaps back, suddenly angry. “How dare you act like I owe you-”

“How dare I?” Sherlock whirls round, coming to such an abrupt stop that John jerks back to face him. “I thought I _knew_ you!” Sherlock shouts, and John has never, _ever_ seen him like this. The consulting detective was always calm and collected. Instead, he shouts like his words are poison to spit out and it feels like a punch to the gut. But what hurts even more is the way Sherlock is so obviously disgusted with him.

John opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Instead, he says nothing as Sherlock narrows his eyes. He stands and stares as the other man storms away.

*

“Shit, I didn’t know you were gay as well,” Lestrade mutters, handing him a beer.

“Bi,” John corrects dully. “At least, I think so. Messed about in the army a bit- we all did- but I’ve never felt- I mean, not until I met Sherlock.” He swigs from the yeasty brew in an effort to hide his embarrassment. Admitting his own feelings to himself was hard enough, let alone to Lestrade. But the other man, although still not entirely sober, nods seriously, his face non-judgemental.

“Not that it matters,” John sighs. “Pretty sure Sherlock hates me now.” His stomach clenches nervously. How on earth was he ever going to return to Baker Street now?

“He doesn’t hate you,” Lestrade says calmly.

“I saw his face, Greg,” John mutters. “And the way he yelled at me afterwards- he made it quite clear how disgusting he found me.”

God, this was why he’d never dared to truly explore his attraction to men- always a quick fumble in the army, heart racing from adrenaline or when he could blame alcohol for wandering hands and rough kisses. Sherlock’s face swims back into his mind-

_I thought I KNEW you!_

“He doesn’t find you disgusting,” Lestrade corrects, voice suddenly sharp. “Come on, this is Sherlock,” he continues in a softer tone. “Do you really think he’s as narrow minded to care about sexuality, let alone find it disgusting?”

John hesitates. “Then why was he so angry?”

Lestrade smiles slowly, and John starts getting the feeling he’s missing out on something vital.

“Go back to Baker Street. And talk things out with Sherlock.”

*

For once, Mycroft looks surprised when Sherlock barges into his house, coat whirling and hair mussed. Well, as surprised as Mycroft was capable of appearing- a single raised eyebrow and a crease on his forehead.

“Do close the door, Sherlock, you’re letting the heat out,” he sighs, closing the file he had been reading.

“It wasn’t a woman,” Sherlock says, eyes wide with disbelief. “I thought- all this time-”

It doesn’t take long for Mycroft to work out what was most likely to have happened.

“Ah.”

“And you knew?” Sherlock edges closer. “You knew John…”

“Is bisexual, yes.”

“And you never thought to tell me?”

“I deemed it… kinder,” Mycroft explains quietly. “I hope you didn’t shout at him.”

A single glance at Sherlock’s face tells him everything he needs to know. “What exactly did you say?”

“I said I thought I knew him,” Sherlock replies, miserable. “And he said it was _none of my business_.”

“Oh, Sherlock, you’ve misunderstood him,” Mycroft smiles, suddenly relieved. “In fact, you’ve both misunderstood the other!”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock snaps, utterly perplexed.

“Return to Baker Street,” Mycroft advises.

“How? How can I face him, after-”

“You pride yourself on being so clever,” Mycroft mocks, opening his file again. “Do you really not see what’s right in front of you?”

“Don’t patronise me,” Sherlock growls. “And just explain what you mean.”

With a dramatic sigh, Mycroft puts down the file to stare down his younger brother. “Well, you’re upset because you saw him with a man who wasn’t you. John’s angry because he can be with men but not the one he really wants. So in fact, are your reasons for distress any different from his?”

“You mean…”

“Return to Baker Street,” Mycroft repeats. “And please close the door behind you.”

Sherlock leaves it wide open.

*

He finds John pacing the floor of 221B.

“Sherlock!” Clearly he hadn’t expected him to return for quite a while. _Fine lines, wide eyes- he hasn’t rested since before the party._ “We need to talk-”

It’s so incredibly easy, Sherlock finds, to cross he room in a few strides and end John’s words on a kiss. He grips the other man by the lapels of his jacket, fingers curling around the leather, then sinking into the soft folds of his jumper.

John freezes under him, lips parted in shock. “A-are you drunk?” He manages to ask, bitterness creeping into his tone.

“As sober as I have ever been in my life,” Sherlock promises, pulling back slightly. He’s breathless- from the kiss or the adrenaline coursing through his veins, he isn’t sure.

“I thought you hated me,” John whispers.

“I could never hate you,” Sherlock admits. “I was just angry.”

“Angry at me?”

“No. I was so sure that one day you’d marry a woman and leave me alone in Baker Street,” Sherlock murmurs. “And then in fact you wanted men too- just not me.”

John looks stunned. “Oh, Sherlock. Alex wasn’t- he was just a distraction! Because I thought I couldn’t have you.” He ends his words on barely a whisper.

Sherlock chuckles softly. “We’ve both been fools, you realise?”

“Even you,” John laughs shakily. Hesitantly, he reaches out to pull Sherlock closer- because he can. And Sherlock obliges, getting right into John’s personal space until the other man gasps. “Kiss me again.”

There’s no hesitation at all this time; they crash into each other’s arms, relief and desire fuelling their movements, sinking down to the sofa.

“I never managed to get you your Christmas present,” John murmurs, when they pull apart.

Sherlock smiles. “That’s not _entirely_ true. I only wanted _you_ for Christmas.”

“Well,” John flushes a little. “You have me.”

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock says.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”  


Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :3


End file.
